


The Lady of Situations

by Prochytes



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Nikita (TV 2010), Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lady of Situations

**Author's Note:**

> Small spoilers for _Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D._ 1x01 “Pilot”, _Torchwood_ to 4x07 “Immortal Sins”, and _Nikita_ to 3x06 “Sideswipe”. Originally posted on LJ in 2013.

“So,” Gwen Cooper leaned forward. “Does he snore?”

Nikita looked discomfited. But only a little. Mostly she still looked poised. Gwen didn’t think that she had ever seen Nikita not looking poised. Even outside her natural environment (as, for example, sitting in the _Black Lion_ public house, Cardiff, on a wet Saturday in June), the woman was basically a Gucci gyroscope. Gwen had never relinquished the nagging suspicion that Niki might be a Time Lord. It was, for all sorts of reasons, wildly improbable. But the lack of visible faze under even the most trying circumstances sometimes made it hard not to conjecture that a shot Nikita would just come back tall and blonde, or small and French.

“Michael does not snore. Well, maybe just a bit.”

“Keep an eye on that. There may be nights when you have to exile him to the sofa. When’s the wedding?”

“We haven’t set a date. And just so we’re clear, Gwen: Division agents will be deployed, with authorization to use lethal force, if you show your face within fifty miles of the ceremony.”

“Spoilsport. Rhys loves dusting off his morning coat. I knew that I shouldn’t have told you about the Nostrovite. Honestly – one alien foetus, and I’m the Ancient Mariner. ”Gwen toyed with a beer-mat. “How’s the hunt for the Shifty Fifty?”

“‘The Dirty Thirty.’ Slow. You never really know where one of them will show up.”

“Mmm. Much like Cardiff bar-staff. And we sent someone who prides herself on invisibility to get the drinks in. Possible tactical error, there.” Gwen looked up. “Ah. False alarm. Any trouble at the bar, Melinda?”

“No.” Melinda May deposited a glass, richly lathered with foam, in front of Gwen, who surveyed it approvingly. That was the great thing about boozing with intelligence agents: no matter how big the round, they never, ever, spilt a drop. James Bond must have been really popular down his local. “One pint of ‘Imagine the funny story behind this name’ for Ms. Cooper…”

“Gorgeous.”

“… and one glass of Chablis for Nikita. They didn’t have a Montrachet.”

“Thank you.” 

“Umm….”

Nikita paused with the glass half-way to her mouth. “Something on your mind, Gwen?”

“Oh – nothing.”

“OK.”

“It’s just…”

Nikita sighed. “…aaaand here it comes…”

“You really should give the beer a chance one of these days. That Chablis has probably been open for a fortnight.”

“She has a point,” Melinda pulled in her chair. “Also, your taste in wine was formed by a psychopath.”

“Harsh but fair.” Gwen took a pull from her mug.

Nikita ‘s eyes narrowed. “I notice that you’re sticking with mineral water, Melinda.”

“I’m driving.”

“So I’ve heard.” Nikita leaned forward. “How’s Agent Coulson?”

“Agent Coulson died in the Battle of New York.” The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent watched her drinking partners exchange glances. “And if… hypothetically…”

“Of course.” Gwen assumed a solemn countenance. “Hypothetically.”

“…if, hypothetically, he hadn’t, that information would be Level Seven, and I’d be curious to know how it was disseminated.”

Nikita shrugged. “I have my Nerd.”

“And I have intermittent, second-hand access to a verbally incontinent madman in a magic box. It’s just as good.”

Melinda pursed her lips.

“We’re not your problem.” Nikita sipped her wine. “If the Avengers find out, they’re going to end you.”

“There are protocols in place for that.”

“They’d better be good ones. Do you think you could take Natasha? I’m not sure I could, even without William Tell shooting my ass off while I tried.”

“I can catch arrows. Occasionally.”

“Excellent,” said Gwen. “Let’s hope you can catch Mjölnir, too. Because believe you me: that bloody thing is _picky_ about who tries to hold it. I remember once when Jack…” She coughed. “Um. Probably better not to speak of that.”

“At least there’s no chance of them finding out, is there, Gwen?”

“None at all, Niki. It’s not as though the Avengers have two spies, two of the smartest men on the planet, and an Asgardian.” Gwen took another swig of beer. Her expression was distant. “They say that one of the Aesir can stand in Asgard, by the Rainbow Bridge, and see the Queen Bats roost on Androzani Minor. It isn’t easy to hoodwink an alien god.”

“Well,” Melinda lifted her water to her lips, “Torchwood would know all about that.”

“ _Touché_.” Gwen lifted her own glass in acknowledgment. “Here’s to keeping the big boys in the dark.” 

“Speaking of which, Gwen, how’s your Families’ Business?” Nikita’s finger traced a triangle on the table. 

“We’re making progress. Plugging away. Ever heard of Dragorin, in Transia?”

“No.”

“Big disaster there.”

“When was that?”

“Next Thursday, if I can find a baby-sitter. I feel like some crisps. Can I tempt either of you two? No? Never mind, all the more for me.” Gwen stood up. “Standard rules apply. Melinda is not to hustle anyone at pool, and Nikita can’t get Birkhoff to hack the quiz machine. Remember: I have to come back here. Oh look – the rugby’s on. You two can continue your crash course on Welsh culture while I’m at the bar.”

The Americans watched Gwen weave between the tables, past the knot of students, the man in the suit with the lap-top, and the pillar in front of which the quiz machine, a garish Gollum, dispensed its enigmas. By the time she returned, they were both back on their smartphones. Gwen ripped open a bag of crisps.

“The local CCTVs have been moving erratically for at least the last two and a half minutes. Should I be worried?”

“We noticed that, too.” Melinda looked up. “We’re reasonably sure that Fitzsimmons is fighting Birkhoff and Sonya for control of them.”

“Dear God. Your bosses really aren’t comfortable with the idea of holiday entitlement, are they?” Gwen stuffed a handful of crisps into her mouth. “Makes me glad that I’m free as a bird.”

“Indeed. Oh, to be a terrorist.”

“Torchwood’s Charter was never revoked, thank you _so_ much, Melinda. It would take the Queen-in-Council to put us out of business, not a bloody bomb.” Gwen gestured in the direction of the TV. “How’s the game going?”

Nikita glanced at the screen. “Not really my kind of…” Her expression brightened. “Actually… that’s not bad. Get a load of the redhead.”

Melinda looked appraisingly at the TV, and nodded. “Nice upper-cut.”

“Think the short one’ll go for the southpaw’s left knee?”

“He’d be a fool not to. Southpaw’s favouring it.” 

“Down he goes.” Nikita sighed in appreciation. “I take it back, Gwen. This game is great.”

“Told you so.”

“Is the ball’s purpose purely symbolic?”

“They’ll get round to it eventually. Rugby is the compressed zip-file version of what you heathens call ‘football’. Plenty of time left over to enjoy a punch-up.”

One of Gwen’s ’phones rang. She looked contrite. 

“I have to take this. Sorry.” Gwen turned slightly away as she spoke into the receiver. “This is a secure line, yes? Good. OK- what’s the emergency? I see. That’s pretty bad. Have you tried looking below the sink? Arse. That’s where I usually put it. You might have to rub her back until she falls asleep, then.” Gwen placed one hand over the instrument and looked up for a moment. “Rhys.”

Nikita nodded. 

“I’m out with the girls, love.” Gwen was speaking back into the ’phone. “No – not Megan and Trina. These are more what you might call my opposite numbers. At other, um, firms. You remember that time I came back from Latveria looking like I’d gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali? Well, I basically had.”

Gwen sighed, and reached for another crisp. “There was this… thing Jack and I were after. It was… actually I can’t remember what it was.” She looked up again. “What were we all hunting in Doomstadt?”

Nikita’s brow wrinkled. “It was the… er… Hmm. Help me out here, Melinda. Coming up a blank…”

“The Ebony Blade,” said Melinda. “It was the Ebony Blade.” She frowned. “Actually, no. That op was the week before.”

Gwen stared. “S.H.I.E.L.D. has the Ebony Blade?”

“No. There were complications.”

“Probably just as well. I’ve heard nasty stories about that sword. Percy of Scandia was a proper shit…”

“Goes with the name…” murmured Nikita.

“… and I’m pretty sure that he had hate-sex with Jack.”

“There must be _some_ historical figures of whom that isn’t true.”

“I can’t honestly think of more than four, Niki. Anyway,” Gwen returned to her ’phone. “I was after this deeply significant… thingy. I think we all agree that the thingy was deeply significant.”

The other two women nodded. 

“But when I sneaked in to steal it – it was one of those ‘nab if possible; destroy if necessary’ jobs, love – I ran into someone who had come with the same idea. There then followed what I believe the circles in which my other friend moves call a ‘misunderstanding fight’.”

“‘Misunderstanding massacre’, more like.” Nikita sipped her Chablis. “I was owning you.”

“Sorry, Rhys, you’ll have to say that again. My delusional friend was babbling over you. Tragic ruin of a once fine mind. Clearly my right hook did lasting neurological damage.”

“Uh-huh. Aid my failing memory, Gwen: exactly how many of your ribs did I crack during our little tussle?”

“I’ve got plenty of ribs, Niki. You only have two jaws. I was ahead.”

“Keep telling yourself that….”

“So, Rhys, just when this other thief was at my mercy….”

“Lies. All lies.”

“We both got jumped by someone else….”

“…who we totally made coming in.”

“Yes, Niki.” Melinda sat back. “I felt very made when I kicked Gwen in the head. And the way you counterfeited surprise at my gut-punch was impressive.”

“Cute. Did my choke-hold look surprised as well?”

“ANYWAY, Rhys, shortly after that, the alarm went off. It seemed a good moment to take stock. We had as many concussions as operable lower limbs between us, and a shared belief that the thingy was better destroyed than in anyone else’s hands. So we smashed it, and helped each other hobble to safety. On that foundation of simple respect and compound fractures was a beautiful friendship born. Think of when you used to sound off to other haulage blokes about Harwood’s, love. It’s good to have someone external who can sympathize with your workplace difficulties. Maybe your boss is spending even more time than usual brooding on high buildings, or a job has gone pear-shaped because your entire tech team spent the last three hours on _Minecraft_ instead of surveillance…”

Melinda rubbed her chin, and reached for the glass.

“… or your protégée is going a bit psycho…” Gwen placed her hand over the receiver again and looked at Nikita. “How is Alex, by the way?”

“Much better now. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m glad. She’s a sweet kid. Saw her in the papers a while back. You should get her to buy a football team. It would be great for her cover; they’re the latest fashion accessory for today’s oligarch.”

“I’ll mention it.”

“Do that. I’m sure that Cardiff City could be persuaded. Is that Anwen in the background, love? Put her on.” Gwen made cooing noises into the ’phone, while the other two women watched Round Seven of the rugby. At last she said, “I’ll let you go, then. Love you, too,” and pocketed the ’phone.

“Your husband is a saint.”

“Don’t I know it, Niki.” Gwen sighed. “So. Whose turn is it?”

“Mine.” Nikita rose and headed in the direction of the bar. “Back soon.”

Silence fell at the table. Gwen leaned over, wishing she could use her hands. A proper kiss does not begin in the lips, any more than a proper punch is born in the fist (there had been a Gwen Cooper – long ago, and long forgotten – who understood the difference). 

But Melinda’s body was out of bounds. Like Gwen, she carried her c. v. on her skin. A hand astray might gossip more than Gwen desired to know (Melinda’s lips were cool, and dry, and a little parted) about Bahrain, or Wakanda, or Portugal, which UNIT still claimed had never happened. (Tosh had cried for three days after she edited the feeds; she told no one but Jack what she had seen there.) Melinda had her secrets, her spread-sheets and her silence, just as Nikita had her shops on Via dei Condotti and her card-castle of fragile, leaning loves, just as Gwen (surrendering wholly to the kiss, now, while students debated _The Great British Bake Off_ in the background) wrapped ordinary lives around her shoulders like a towel warm and scented from the laundry. These were the ways you coped, in the face of a world that was (despite your guile, and your reflexes, and your tech) every day more fractured and more strange: foxes in the town and archmages in the Village, possible Earthdeath and impossible girls and a pound wouldn’t buy you a loaf of good bread in Tesco, and ice warriors bannered with spangled stars. 

A light tap on her shoulder. “It’s done.” Nikita eased herself back into her seat, depositing a lap-top on the table as she did so. 

“Good.” Melinda pulled back, and rolled her tongue around her teeth. She glanced at Gwen. “Cheese and onion? Really?”

“Sorry.” Gwen winced sheepishly. “Should have thought ahead. Is he out for the count, Niki?”

“Of course.” Nikita nodded in the direction of the suited man several tables over, who appeared, to an uneducated eye, to have nodded off. “One day, the bad guys are going to send an obvious tail who isn’t distracted by two hot women making out. But not today.”

“Amen to that.” Gwen opened up the lap-top, and peered at it. “Hmm. Encrypted.” She took a small green crystal from her pocket and held it against the screen, watching purple glyphs crawl across its surface. She nodded in satisfaction. “But not very. Open sesame.”

“Wow.” Nikita craned to look at the screen. “Where did you get _that_?”

“eBay. Youth of today, they just don’t know a Polyklepticon Crystal from Logopolis when they find one. Hmm. Files say he’s Centipede. Who the bloody hell are Centipede?”

“New outfit.” Melinda took out her smartphone. 

“My. Where were they when they were handing out the supervillain names? Nothing makes strong men quail like a small, potentially slightly poisonous squiggly thing. Still – you wouldn’t want to get into an arse-kicking contest with them, I suppose. Does this mean that S.H.I.E.L.D. will handle the clean-up?”

“It does. I’ve sent a message; a team will bring him in.”

“Great. Back to the drinks.”

“Or not.” Melinda pointed at the TV screen, which was no longer displaying the rugby. Gwen frowned.

“Live news footage? What could be so important that they would interrupt…” She looked more closely. “Oh. Oh _fuck_.”

Melinda’s ’phone began to vibrate. Gwen’s second ’phone began to play “You Sexy Thing”. She reddened at Nikita’s raised eyebrow.

“He insisted.” Gwen snapped the ’phone open, as Melinda followed suit. “Hi, Jack. Yes, I’m seeing this. Why the _fuck_ is there a Rutan ship above Toulouse? It’s not as though there’s anything interesting there. Oh. I stand corrected.” She raised her voice a little. “Nothing interesting beside a _S.H.I.E.L.D. containment facility_ , you say.”

“That would be…”

“I know, I know. Level Seven. Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll be there shortly. I think that we can anticipate some inter-agency cooperation on this one.”

“Or, to put it another way, you want a ride.”

“Please?”

“OK. But no crumbs on the seats.”

“You’re a star, Melinda.” Gwen smiled apologetically back at Nikita as she followed the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent through the doors. “Sorry about this, Niki. Rain-check?”

“Of course. I’ll just sit here and enjoy my Chablis.”

Nikita took a mouthful of wine, and looked at the screen. The Toulouse footage was now picking out the faces of people on the ground. She frowned as she focussed on one of them, and cocked her head.

In Nikita’s handbag, a ’phone began to ring.

An observer would have seen the American woman barrel through the doors, shouting “SHOTGUN!” But none was present. The Centipede agent lolled in his chair; the eyes behind the CCTVs were now distracted. On the screen, the live news footage continued for a while, and then cut out. The rugby resumed its private, little war.

FINIS


End file.
